


a sword in hand and she fights her own battles

by marvelleous



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Game of Thrones-esque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:05:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9431882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelleous/pseuds/marvelleous
Summary: She was a highborn lady, and he was no more than a bastard.





	1. Chapter 1

Melinda loved nothing more than to sneak away from the watchful eyes of the servants at the castle, slipping unnoticed through darkened hallways and secret passages until she reached the practice yard where the boys were sparring with their practice swords. She would stand in the shadows for a minute or two, watching their less than average technique before raising her skirts and tromping out towards them, kicking up dust as she went.

With a sweet smile or two, she made to trick one of them to trade their sword for a treat she had snuck from the kitchens earlier. And if that didn't work, a good kick in the shin would send them sprawling, their spoils for her to claim victory over.

And so an hour or two was spent fighting with the boys, muddying her skirts; the fabric undoubtedly being unsalvageable by the end of the practice. Sometimes she would even let them get a couple hits in, the fragility of a male's ego evident to her even at her young age.

Of course, running away from her own afternoon lessons would lead to a less than savoury lecture from her parents. Her father would sigh, gripe about her ruining another dress, and send her to bed without dinner as punishment. (And he would slip into her room after the evening meal was over with a tray full of food.)

Her mother on the other hand would ask her how many boys she managed to knock down, and then spend the rest of the night correcting her technique.

"If you are going to fight with the boys Melinda, you must learn to beat all of them."

Her mother was a great swordsman, but also every bit the noble lady she was born to be. At eight years old, Melinda wanted nothing more than to grow up and one day best her mother at a fight.

 

* * *

 

Phil was a master of many trades. He scrubbed dishes in the back kitchen of taverns, did the heavy lifting for men who had grown heavy for their lack of lifting, groomed horses, mucked out their stalls and delivered messages all through the town.

All in a day's work.

He was one of the lucky ones, earning a coin or two, here and there, enough to buy him a hot meal and a place to sleep at the end of each day. He had seen others like him starve to death on the streets; he had no desire to meet the same fate.

During particularly fortunate seasons, he even managed to stay in one place for several days at a time, helping out on farms during the harvests.

Such was the life of an orphaned bastard in these kingdoms, and the moment he was old enough to know better, he understood that this life wasn't going to change.

_In another time, another place, they may have been equals, they may have been friends. They may never meet or may know one another from their first breaths._

She is ten when her mother and father relent and present her with a real sword. Thinking back on the event, the sword was likely to ease her into the news that she would soon be packed up and shipped off to a neighbouring kingdom until she was old enough to marry.

Her parents do not accompany her; entrusting her safety to a handful of knights and by the time they arrive she is dreadfully tired of their company. So she does what she does best and slips away to explore the streets.

The kingdom is so different to the one where she grew up, the towns so lively and filled with laughter. She can tell that many of the families that live in the run down houses likely do not have enough to eat, yet they smile and sing and dance all the same.

The sun is much lower in the sky by the time she thinks to make her way back to her guards, who are no doubt scouring the city trying to find her. And so she hurries back, dashing between people, weaving through the hustle and bustle, until she collides with someone, sending both of them sprawling to the rocky ground.

"You should really watch where you are going my lady," she hears as the boy she had unfortunately tipped over stands and offers her a hand.

She takes it, using it as an anchor to pull herself back to her feet, before glowering in his direction.

He is another one of the common folk, only moderately tall but still towering over her and she has half a mind to knock him over again and bolt before they draw any more attention to themselves.

  
“I am no lady,” she scoffs, carelessly dusting off her skirts, frowning at a darkened patch near the hem.

  
“You are wearing a dress that could buy enough food to last me through till next spring,” he responds, taking in the intricate detailing in her bodice and skirts, all of which she appears to care little for. His words seem to spark something within her, because before he has a chance to react, she has thrown something hard at his face and taken off, quickly disappearing into the crowds.

  
Rubbing gently at his forehead which was sure to bruise by next morning, he bends to retrieve the item she had used in attempt to main him, a roughly stitched bag, tied together by a thin blue cord. He tosses up in the air several times, testing the weight as it falls back into his palm. From the loud clinks coming from within the bag, he can tell that the strange little lady had thrown her coin pouch at his head.

  
He tries to search for her amongst the hundreds of villagers making their way down the road, but she has already vanished. With a resigned sigh, he carefully tucks the pouch away. If she did not come back for it in the morrow, he would have to head towards the castle and return it to her himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continued due to requests from lovely people here and on tumblr. this one is for you guys.

Melinda prefers solitude, even at eleven years old, but she is thankful for the workers heading home from after a long day of work to mask her escape from an embarrassing incident. She was usually so observant and cautious, far beyond slamming into others and knocking them down. Back home she could slink around the castle after hours, escaping notice from all (except her mother of course; though she never called her out when caught, Melinda could tell by the look in her eyes at breakfast the next morning that her little secret adventure had not been a secret at all).

 

She fumes quietly about her own shortcomings as she treks back towards the castle where she is to live for the next few years. There are guards in armour standing at the entrance, and she ducks behind the trunk of a particularly wide tree as she spies on of her own retinue looking frazzled as he rushes around, likely trying to locate her before they were all punished for her disobedience. 

 

She thinks it through for a few moments, staring down at the dusty hem of her dress before an idea comes to mind. Bending down, she lifts her skirts a little with one hand and dirties them even more with the other, smearing dried dirt to create an authentic of a look as she could, before tearing the lace on her sleeves and bodice. She rubs the residue against one side of her face and tugs none too gently on her intricate braids which had already begun to loosen from her day out and about.

 

Pressing right up against the tree, she peers out and sees that there are now two of her household guards on the lookout for her. She slumps down at the base of the trunk between two large roots and quickly but carefully cleans off the dirt from her hands, picking beneath her fingernails to ensure no trace was left. Satisfied with her handiwork, she stands and steps out from the shadows.

 

“Over here,” she shouts in as hushed a tone as possible. She huffs and tries again when that fails to evoke a response from the two, a little louder this time and sighs in relief as their heads turn. It takes them a moment longer to finally spot where she is standing and a moment after that for them to rush over to her.

 

“My lady, where have you been? We have been searching for you all over the city,” the taller of the two, whose name she never bothered to learn, asks.

 

Clearly you were not searching hard enough or you would have found me, she thinks but does not say, because she does have manners, and this is an appropriate time to demonstrate them. And she honestly does believe that they looked high and low for her, but she has always had a knack for avoiding those that she wants. It is unfortunate that she appears to lack that ability when in regards to random strangers.

 

“Look, this is what we are going to do,” she says in a voice her mother has used countless times to give orders, standing a little straighter to demonstrate power. “I know that you have not yet reported that I was missing, or else all the castle guards would be tearing through the streets trying to locate me. You probably made up some story about how “the little lady” wanted to see the markets, and one of you took me there.”

 

They both scratch their necks and hang their heads a little lower and she forces herself to not roll her eyes at them. “You,” she says pointing to the shorter one, “are going to run on ahead, and alert the guards that we were attacked on the streets, they tried to take me away and succeeded in stealing my coin pouch.” When he opens his mouth to respond, she turns and points a finger at the other one, “And you. You are going to tell them that you fought the man, whose face we could not see because it was covered, and he ran off. And now, you are going pick me up in your arms while I pretend to cry.” With that, she takes a step forward and leaps up at him, almost toppling over as he secures her in his arms. She wrinkles her nose in distaste as she buries her face against his shoulder, and shudders to mimic the very image of a crying child in distress. 

 

“As you command, my lady.”

 

***

 

They make their way to the great hall, where Melinda assumes the Lady of the House is awaiting her arrival, and she is truly tired of the fake crying by now so she stills and pretends to be asleep, keeping her breathing even. 

 

“Lady Margaret,” she hears the short one say, before launching off into the story she had fed them earlier. She is grateful that the halls are mostly deserted, as her arrival was not to be celebrated until she was settled in, for while she has no qualms about twisting the truth or even straight up lying at times, she does not need the entirety of the neighbouring nobility to hear about it. 

 

When he is finished speaking, Lady Margaret responds, offering her sympathies and saying that their tardiness is not an issue, especially not in a situation like this one. 

 

“I am quite sure the poor thing will need time to recuperate,” she says, and Melinda can tell from her voice how kind hearted the lady is; all while detecting a hint of something else. Something more. Something that strangely reminded Melinda of her own mother. 

 

“Yes my lady, I agree. She will definitely need to rest from this ordeal,” the tall one says. “At least two da-,” he stops short as Melinda jabs him in the neck twice, “Sorry, at least four days, my lady. She did have quite a fright,” he amends, and she feels like cheering when the short one quickly agrees. It was quite unfortunate that she had to feign weakness to escape her duties, but one had to do such things to get what they wanted.

 

She listens without interest as their conversation continues, and grins into the tall one’s shoulder as they escort her to her rooms where the two ladies she brought from home are waiting. As soon as the doors close behind her and she is left alone with her escorts, she wriggles down from the tall one’s arms, and jumps nearly a foot in the air in joy. 

 

Maybe her new home would not be so terrible after all.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh Peg, the poor thing,” Steve, captain of the guard, sympathises as she relays to him the events of the day while the pair share a quiet meal together later that evening. 

 

Lady Margaret, or Peggy as he addresses her in private, nods slowly, taking a sip of her wine. 

 

“I will have to issue a proclamation to capture this man of course,” she tells him, tapping her fingers against the wooden table. “For such a heinous crime, have your soldiers find him, and lock him in our dungeons. I will come up with a suitable punishment when need be. Maybe we could have him flogged.”

 

“Right away, my lady,” he says, reverting to “captain of the guard” mode, and she shakes her head before yanking him down for a long searing kiss. “Do not stay up too late my darling,” she calls to him as he heads towards the door, and he responds with a wide smile before ducking out, the door closing softly after him. 

 

“Oh Steve, you would believe anything would you not?” she mutters, picking up her goblet and draining the rest of her wine. Not even a day and Melinda was turning out to be much more than her parents had warned. She smirks around the golden rim; the days to come would be a challenge she would surely enjoy. 


	3. Chapter 3

Melinda awakens the next morning looking forward to her day for once. As she slips out of bed, taking care not to jostle her sleeping ladies in waiting, she stretches her arms above her head and lets out a silent yawn. The sky outside is still very dark, and though she is not yet familiar with when the sun rises here in the South, she knows that it set further into the evening than was normal for her, and with the knowledge she has from lessons about their land, she assumes that it must rise earlier too.

 

Her hair is loose but not too tangled after a night’s sleep, and she braids it together to keep it out of her face, securing the ends with a leather cord. She slips out of the thin white nightgown that she had been wrangled into for bed, and quickly digs through her as of yet unpacked trunks to find clothing less likely to be destroyed by her planned activities. When she is dressed and ready for the day, she retrieves her most prized possession, her sword. 

 

It is very well crafted, and the design though simple, has an elegance about it. She tests the weight in her hands a few times before grabbing the hilt, adjusting her grip as she does. The blade, though fairly dull, could cut through skin all too easily; she has healing scars across her fingertips attesting to that. When she is satisfied that there was no damage sustained on the journey here, she tucks it back into its leather scabbard, and ties the attached belt around her waist.

 

Now she is ready to go and train. She is hoping that one of her guards can be persuaded to abandon their post by her door and keep her company in one of the many sparsely decorated rooms that form her chambers. She can fight them, and she can lose.

 

But come will be a day when she wins.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil forces himself to rise long before the sun is up the next morning, blinking away the sleep from his eyes with a soft groan. While he usually awakens early, the sky is rarely so dark when his days begin. He has much to do today; having struck a deal with one of the local taverns to retrieve ingredients for them from a local farm eight times in a month, in exchange for three copper coins a time. He will have to make at least three trips back and forth, and then he has other tasks around town throughout the day. But today he will have to make another journey, this one to the castle. A not quite familiar path for him.

 

In his lifetime, if one could call seven and ten years a lifetime, Phil has been within the castle walls a total of three times. The first was as a boy; he cannot recall how long ago the visit was, but there had been a festival celebrating the end of the war, and all were invited to attend; from the poorest orphan like himself, to the richest of lords and ladies from foreign lands. The second time was a several years later; he made deliveries to the palace guards often, but there had been a particularly lazy guard that day, who simply waved for him to enter and make the delivery directly. 

 

And the third was close to four years ago, for another celebration; this time a wedding.

 

The lord of their land ruled with an iron fist, and was not kind by any means, but nor was he cruel. His son on the other hand, cared little about anyone but himself and would surely not make a good leader. Phil had seen the lordling about the town often, taking whatever he wanted from the poor, holding claim over trinkets that were worthless to him but priceless to others. And if ever someone tried to fight back, they would be taken away by guards and chained up in the stocks for a week. Whilst news of their Lord’s growing illness spread about the land, so did rumours that the lordling would soon be wed, to a noble lady from a neighbouring land. The people felt sadness and pity for the lady - no one deserved to spend a life by the side of such a man. 

 

Very few looked forward to the day command of the land would be passed on to him. But in the end they need not have worried, for that day never came. 

 

The last great wedding had taken place before Phil was born; the union between the Lord and his own wife. He had heard tales about the grandeur of such occasions, but was eager to see for himself; to catch one glimpse of their land’s new lady, who was said to be as beautiful as the rising sun. And sees her he does. The Lady Margaret; garbed in the finest jewels and richest silks as she is bound to her new husband; smiling and waving to the people, reaching out to hold the hands of children as she passed, accepting their pauper’s gifts of wildflowers and weeds. 

 

She brought hope for their people, and they cheered only for her. (They cheered for her husband too, but only when they learnt about his unfortunate death less than a month after the wedding.)

 

He remembers cheering. He also remembers how she did not attend her own wedding feast, instead asking her attendants to bring out food for those who had stood there all day just to see her. He can still recall the image of her, standing there in her wedding gown, sleeves pushed up and hair tucked back, personally handing out to all those who approached. How her smile never wavered, her eyes lighting up as she introduced herself again and again. 

 

He remembers her kindness and charity. How she had been the first person in a long while to ask him how he was feeling. 

 

* * *

 

 

He does not feel the same kindness today.

 

He had made it to the castle gates as planned, the little lady’s coin pouch in one hand, ready to hand it to whoever can deliver it back to her. He does not expect gratitude. He does not expect a reward. 

 

He also does not expect for the guards to advance in alarm and announce that he is under arrest. They drag him through the grounds and present him to a man Phil recognises by his armor is the captain of the castle guards. 

 

“We found the thief, Captain,” one announces. “He has the stolen pouch.” They toss it over to the captain who catches it with ease and nods. “Lady Margaret will decide on a punishment later. Take him to the dungeons.”

  
Phil wants to struggle, yell and protest as they take him away, but confusion and terror take over and he does not resist, complying as they throw him into a darkened cell. Sitting on the cold, hard ground, he heaves a sigh and wonders what he did to deserve this. He lies down, curled up in the corner, and consoles himself that at least he has somewhere to sleep tonight. 


	4. Chapter 4

Phil does not often have the chance to sit and ponder about life, always moving from one task to the next, hoping to earn enough to keep himself warm and fed. He is but a simple man.  
  
But now, locked up beneath the castle, in a tiny cell with armed guards patrolling around, he takes the time to think.   
  
It is different. Strange, almost. But he finds that he does enjoy it.   
  
His thoughts drift to his daily work at some of the taverns, how he promised one of the innkeepers he would be there after sunset to help out in exchange for somewhere to sleep and a bowlful of whatever stews they had leftover. The townsfolk have long memories and he is not likely to be given a second chance with them - he will have to find a new way to survive.

Phil then thinks of the little lady, very pretty and very uncomfortable in her fine gown, the expression on her face as she tossed her coin pouch at his head. She probably lied about having it stolen after having being caught sneaking out; he cannot pretend he knows what the noble think of, but she is just another young girl out looking for fun, and he has the briefest of memories about lying to the old lady who begrudgingly cared for them, sneaking out to play instead of completing his chores.  
  
He will not expose her lies, not that anyone would believe the words of a dirty villager over those of a highborn lady. He also thinks that the Lady Margaret is kind and just, and will not have him executed over  this.   
  
If he has to spend the rest of his days locked up, he should make the most of his time. He has not been fortunate enough to ever have much of that, and so he sits and begins tracing patterns in the dirt, trying in vain to remember the symbols he has picked up over the years.   
  
The world might look upon him as a heathen, but Phil has never wanted more than to learn to read and write.   
  
And he may have a lifetime of nothing but time to do just that.

* * *

 

Melinda feels a sense of foreboding as she slips out of bed on her fifth day in her new home, brushing off both her attendants as she quickly dressed herself, begrudgingly pulling on a dress, the simplest she had brought along with her.  
  
The fun was over and now she would likely be forced into classes with other daughters and sons of noble families to learn more about their land.   
  
She despises it, even the thought of it.   
  
Her ladies eventually coerce her into a chair, and play around with her hair until they have managed to secure it into an intricate mess of braids, and she glares at them through her reflection in her mirror, even though she knows they are only following orders.   
  
They are pinning one last gaudy ornament into her hair when one of her guards enters to announce that the Captain of the guard had arrived to escort her to break her fast with Lady Margaret.   
  
Melinda puts on her most dazzling smile, and holds herself up like her mother had yelled at her to do many times in the past, exiting her chambers and then her living quarters to meet the Captain at the door.   
  
"My lady," is the first thing out of the Knight's mouth as he bends and takes her tiny hand in his, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She hates these pleasantries and normally has a difficult time refraining from yanking her hand away and giving the perpetrator a swift kick in the shins, but Captain Rogers seems to be a very kind man, his smile genuine and warm.

Her ladies fail to hide their expressions of surprise as she takes the Captain's arm, small fingers wrapping around the exposed chain mail of his uniform, and following him without a fuss. She allows him to lead her through the castle halls, noticing how he stops to greet even the lowest of servants as he passes them. Melinda tries to copy his example, offering a smile each time they paused in their journey.  
  
They arrive at what appears to be the doors to Lady Margaret's chambers, and she stands behind the Captain as he opens the door unannounced, following closely behind as he enters the room.   
  
Strange, she thinks, that a man so disciplined should forget basic courtesy. Maybe the rules were different here; that would not be so awful.

"My lady," she hears the Captain say, and Melinda quickly scans the room, looking for the woman who had agreed to take herself on as a ward. She barely manages to contain a gasp of surprise when she sees her for the first time.  
  
Lady Margaret is nothing like she expected.   
  
She is not older like Melinda's own mother, and though she already knew that fact before leaving home, it is still a shock for her to see. A woman so young ruling over a castle... she is not sure she will hate it here after all.   
  
There are no fancy braids or gold and pearls around her neck, no hand-stitched designs on a trailing gown, no paint on her face.   
  
In fact, Lady Margaret's attire makes Melinda feel overdressed in her plain grey gown.   
  
She feels the Captain stop beside her, and slowly unhooks her hand from his elbow, lifting her skirts slightly as she makes her way over to the Lady Margaret. There is an entire speech in her head prepared - full of details she had forced her guards to remember so they would not alarm anyone as to her secret trip upon arriving in the kingdom.

Melinda is not afforded the opportunity to speak however, when Lady Margaret gestures for her to sit down. The table has a paltry selection of food, nothing like the meals they had been sending to her room for the past few days, but she has never appreciated feasts like others do, and having less to select from is something she will choose to view positively.  
  
"I hope you feel at home here Melinda, despite the events upon your arrival," Lady Margaret says, and she nods quickly, feeling ill at ease beneath the stare of the woman.   
  
It was as if she knew what Melinda was thinking, could see through the lie she had concocted.   
  
"We have captured the thief. Captain Rogers has had him locked up for several days, and I thought it would be a good experience for you to decide the punishment for breaking the laws of our land."

Melinda freezes in her seat, unable to move, unable to breathe at the words. It did not matter who they had caught for the crimes if she knew they were innocent. The last thing she wants is for someone to suffer punishments they do not deserve, and yet she is still reluctant to speak the truth.  
  
To choose between revealing herself as a liar or to have someone be chained up and flogged or worse... she almost hates herself for having to actually consider it.   
  
She is not a bad person, she cannot let someone be punished for something they did not do.   
  
Melinda had never intended for anyone to get in trouble for this, and now, seeing the serious expression on Lady Margaret's face as she calls for the Captain to have the prisoner brought here, she feels nothing but guilt.

 

* * *

  
  
It takes every last shred of energy Phil can muster up to walk on shaky legs as two guards drag him out of his cell.   
  
He hears them talking through the ringing in his ears, and he knows that this might be the end.   
  
There was hope in the first two days of his imprisonment, hope that they would move past this misunderstanding and allow him to go back to his life on the streets. But as the sun dawned on his third day in the cells, with no food or water, he feared that the Lady of the castle may not be as just as he remembered.

He has gone longer without a shred of nourishment in his life, been forced to sleep in colder places, trying desperately to keep warm in the harshest of winters. But even then he had tried to keep faith that tomorrow would be better.  
  
Phil has no idea if he fears death, and he expects today may be the day he finds out.

Melinda has never been as afraid as this moment, not even when she mistakenly destroyed one of her mother's prized possessions in a childish fit many years ago.  
  
She waits with a bated breath, staring at the wooden door until she can hear footsteps outside, and at the sound, she sits up straighter in her seat, this time audibly gasping as the Captain enters the room once more, this time followed by two guards and a semi conscious prisoner.   
  
She feels her heart sink to her stomach as she barely recognises the smiling man she had encountered in town not six days past. He was almost unrecognisable now, with his even dirtier clothing, and horrible complexion.   
  
The guards release him and are waved from the room by the Captain, who moves to take his place at Lady Margaret's side.

Neither of them speak to her, silent as they wait for her to respond, but she finds her throat dry and stomach rolling despite the fact that she has not yet eaten today.  
  
She suspects the man has not eaten since his capture, seeing the sweat on his brows, the deep frown between them as he concentrates on staying upright. He is fighting a losing battle and Melinda watches as his knees begin to buckle and he collapses against the cold stone floor.

Melinda ignores all other things and acts with her heart, not her head as she leaps from her seat and rushes to his side.   
  
She would not let anything more happen to this man, who had made her truly smile for the first time since her parents sent her away, this man who had done nothing wrong and was now suffering because of her childish actions.   
  
And so she sinks to her knees beside him, placing a hand to his forehead and feeling his skin sear her palm.   
  
"I am truly sorry," she whispers to him, looking deep into his eyes, which she now realised were so, so blue. He appears to have trouble breathing, yet he shakes his head softly at her, heaving and coughing when he tries to speak.   
  
She rests a hand over his chest, trying to soothe his pains and when the coughs do not stop, it takes everything for her not to immediately panic.   
  
In her subconsciousness, she can feel the stares of Lady Margaret and the Captain, but whatever they think of her is the farthest thing from her mind as she rushes back over to the table, scrambling to grab a goblet and filling it up with the pitcher of water that stood on one side.   
  
The liquid spills over the edges in her haste to be back at the man's side, and she knows there will be bruises on her knees in the coming days from the force at which she crashes to the ground, pulling his head into her lap and coercing him to some what sit up.

She places the goblet at his lips, her other hand returning to rest over his heart, just for her to know that it is still heating, and she can feel his chest rise and fall with each mouthful of the cool water he takes in. It is empty far too soon for her liking, and she can see that he is panting around the rim, the meagre cupful having done very little to replenish the liquid he must have lost during his capture.  
  
She does not stop to think, does not react, as a shadow falls over her and the Captain is there, the pitcher of water in his hands as he bends down beside her. Using all the strength she has, she pulls the man to sit up against her, his height dwarfing her tiny frame, and she holds him still as the Captain pours the water into his mouth.   
  
When the pitcher too is drained, the man looks a little farther from death, but the heat from his body still makes Melinda fear for the worst, and she can do nothing in this moment but lay her cold hands upon his brow in an attempt to soothe his aches and pains.

"I think that will do."  
  
Melinda whips her head around at the sound of Lady Margaret's voice, eyes widening as the woman approaches. She almost subconsciously tightens her hold on the man, wanting to protect him, to shield him.   
  
"You have seen the consequences of your actions, and I hope you know that there is no room for lies between us. We will be moving your training around. Your first task will be to learn how to nurse a wounded warrior, or innocent prisoner in this case, back to health."   
  
Melinda has no time or room in her mind to react, the safety and survival of the man being her biggest concern. The Lady had been testing her, and there was speak of training. On any other day she would feel excitement, but all she feels now is guilt and worry.   
  
She sits back and does not fight when the two guards return and between them, lift up the man, carrying him between the two of them. The Captain gestures for her to follow as they move to another part of the castle, closer to her own living quarters.   
  
The guards drop the man onto the bed, and Melinda does not spare the Captain a second glance when they leave. Instead, she clambers over onto the bed, and it is a difficult task, but she manages to coerce the man's body beneath the covers, pulling them up over his chest and tucking them down around him as her father used to do with her when she was younger.   
  
"I am so sorry," she says again, and this time the man cracks a smile, one that sends relief rushing through her veins.   
  
"I will do anything, everything to make it up to you," she promises, even as she hears the voices of her parents in her mind to never make a promise she cannot keep. She is stubborn and determined and she will be forever indebted to this stranger for nearly costing him his life.   
  
"Just tell me one thing," he croaks out weakly, and it is her turn to smile, so happy to hear his voice once more.   
  
She nods, placing a hand on his arm over the thick furs covering his body.   
  
"What is your name, m'lady?"   
  
She half heartedly glares at him, at the little smirk he gives her and she thinks she may have made her first friend in this new kingdom.   
  
"Melinda," she tells him, ignoring the social graces dictated by their ancestors. He may be a commoner, but he is a better person than she is.

He smiles again and she reluctantly returns it, awkwardly patting him on the arm.  
  
"Phil," he responds and she tests the name out a couple times in her mind, before trying it out loud.   
  
He does not react and she realises he has fallen asleep. It is a good thing, she thinks, as she moves off the bed. She will make sure that he recovers from his ordeals in the castle dungeons.

It is a promise she is not afraid to make.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I super appreciate any feedback people leave :)


End file.
